Deadpool's Sidekick
by JenniferJoy99
Summary: Beatrix was dead. Then she wasn't dead. Then she was looting Target. Then the weird guy showed up. Then a bunch of crazy things happened and she ends up as a sidekick to the famous merc with a mouth. Not slash! Rated T because I'm paranoid.
1. Am I a Zombie?

AN: This is my first fanfic, so please keep that in mind. Also, I'm just starting year seven, so sorry if I can't update constantly. They seem to keep a habit of swamping us poor grade sevens with extra homework, assessment and classwork. I accept reviews and mild flames, but don't be too rude. JJ out.

(May 4, 2016)

My name is Beatrix, and I am dead. Being dead is quite enlightening, you know. Especially the buried part of it. The darkness is endless and the closeness of the coffin is quite...disturbing. So I decide to dig. But to get out, I need to get out of this coffin. I panic in the darkness for a bit before having a brainwave. First thing first, poke out the sides of the coffin with my stiletto heels. And then all my plans fly out of my brain because the lid of this coffin is on me and it's crushing me and I can't breathe. So I roll to one side and the metric tonne of dirt is slightly shifted. But when it comes crashing down into the little space it found now I'm trapped in between dirt and a diagonal coffin lid. You know how uncomfortable that is? It's hell.

Know that I've explained a bit (which really means told you not much at all), I better get started on digging. Digging where? Digging up. One handful after another flies behind me. I reckon that somebody's been down here before, because the dirt's really loose. I hardly need to dig at all, just wiggle my way up. Like a little worm. Like a zombie worm that's recently been dead. Gosh, I'm not a zombie, am I? I hope not. That'd just be sad. I reckon being a zombie's a fate worse than death, since you can't cross the river to Elysium. Oh, I haven't mentioned that my family's greek, have I?

Well, we're Greek. My mom looks like me; blond hair that's really thick, curly and tangles onto anything. I can stick pencils in my hair and they'll stay in. I also have her long, straight nose. It'd be a perfect nose, except it's too long. I have my dad's brown skin, though. And mom's green eyes, that can be compared to freshly cut grass on good days and pond scum on bad ones. My mom and I also share a boot fetish. My dad and I share a fascination with superheroes. We had a normal life. Until I died. I don't even remember how I died. Or in what circumstances. Anything within a day of my death, I can't remember. But I sure will remember now!

Why? Because I'm digging my way out of my own grave. And speaking of digging, my hand is finally in the air. Okay, maybe it's just the tip of my rude finger, but it counts! Now I scrabble away even more frantically than before. If I can get out, I can get help. Meet family and friends again. I wonder if I should just casually show up at school, and be like "Wassup?" To my friends. They'd probably try to 'kill the evil zombie'. Us gamer nerds stick together. But I need to get out to be able to see them. Need to get out.

It took too long. It took way too long to dig my way out of my own grave. What a weird thought. It's not someone should ever have. In any other context, it would be just wrong. But this is me, not some prissy cheerleader. My fingernails are broken and bleeding. One's been torn all the way off. But even as I stare at it, it grows back. Faster than it should grow back. Way faster. Like, in front of my eyes fast. I turn around, finally looking up from my super finger. There are a few stars out, but most are blocked by light pollution from my city. The moon's a waning gibbous moon, and it's big in the sky. Of course, it's partially blocked by big grey clouds. And then I spin and see it. My gravestone. It's not one of those elaborate white marble headstones. In fact, with great irony, it's a simple white cross. Some daisies under it. No inscription. Hand painted. The daisies are in a greek style pot. It's all ferociously clear to me. Too clear. Way too clear. I'm looking at my own grave. And that's when the tiredness kicks in. The overwhelming situation. I'm legally dead. How the hell am i supposed to do anything now? I'm legally dead.

I know a sleeping girl beside an open grave in a funeral dress, with brittle dried flowers in her hair isn't the best image. I would snap a pic, make an awesome creepy pasta and then call the cops, the ambulance and the media. But I'm just too tired. It's slipping away from me. Everything is slipping away from us. It's too far gone for me to grab. So I just slide down onto the lovely wet, dewy grass and close my eyes.

My dreams, I'm afraid, are a bit morbid. I'm floating above my body, watching myself. My face is too pasty with makeup. And then a spade comes through my dream chest, and blood spurts all over my real body. Who is very dead, by the way. And then spades come away and there's a faceless man with a syringe. Which he injects into my neck. Then my body's eyes snap open. But they have no eyeballs, just empty sockets. My mouth also snaps open, and then my soul is being sucked inside my body. It hurts, because my body is chomping my soul into bits and swallowing. I'm being eaten alive by myself. Oh, the irony. And then suddenly my eyeballs are back and I'm looking at the man. I open my mouth again to say "Wha-" just to have the coffin lid slammed shut. And spadeful after spadeful of dirt being thrown onto my poor coffin. I'm being buried alive - and it's not even for the first time.

AN:

Wow. I knew it would suck. Sorry there isn't any Deadpool right now, but I'm going to try and bring him into the story over the next few chapters. Please review! I'm just starting out, so any constructive criticism is appreciated!


	2. Looting Target

AN: Okay, second chapter. This is going to be the great Deadpool's first appearance. Viva la chimichanga!

(May 5, 2016)

So, with nowhere to go and a hundred bucks, I go to the home of cheap clothes. Target! I love target 'cause I can get cool clothes cheap as chips. Love it! I pick out some great pieces like primary coloured skinny jeans and this great watercolour skull T-shirt. And all this cost less than 20 bucks. So finally when I've got the clothes I need I go over to the cashier. She's obnoxiously chewing gum and flipping her blonde extensions. Ugh. I hate girls like her. They seem so fake. Like, barbie doll fake. So I decide to be a nightmare customer. Instead of handing her the 18 bucks she's expecting, I hand her the crisp hundred dollar bill. And then when she uses the computer to make the calculation I just click my tongue. Loudly. She flushes bright red. Success! Anyway, I'm ready to go. Picking up my bag full of clothes I spin...and stop.

Attack of the Men In Black. I'm not even kidding. A bunch of men in black suits with shades on burst through the door and rush at me. They have guns. The cashier automatically drops what she's holding and sits on the floor with a splat. Did they kill her? Turing to look, I see they have not. Pity. Wait, since when did I, Beatrix Herath, have these thoughts? Since when did I want to kill people?

Actually, I've always wanted to kill Suzy York.

But now I'm slightly preoccupied because the nearest guy in black shot me in the heart. So I kick him in the nuts. Sweet retribution! How i'm not dead, I don't know. But who cares? Swiping his gun and roundhouse kicking his throat, I let loose on the Men In Black. My reaction speed is slightly higher than a normal persons. Like, way higher. It comes from being a gamer. So the poor men in black have no chance against a butt kicking zombie who's reactions are several times faster than theirs. Especially not when that zombie has been trained from birth in martial arts and shooting. No chance.

I don't feel very remorseful after I kill them all. They shot first! Why would I feel remorseful? No reason, that's why! Except the whole killing is bad thing, I guess. But who listens to that crap? Not me! Looking at the cashier, I can tell she's pissed herself. Poor her. "Please don't hurt me!" She whimpers. I'm half tempted to shoot her in the head and tell her to bug off, but I don't have it in me. So I roll my eyes, step over her and start looting the cash register. I also grab the more expensive pieces I'd been eyeing but couldn't afford with my measly hundred bucks. Well, my measly hundred bucks have turned into seventy five thousand bucks! I'm in such a good mood that I even whisper a thanks to the men in black.

Then I hear him. "Should we go in?" He asks. "Are you sure they're in distress by now?" He asks nobody. "What do you mean, they could be dead by now? Oh, I left it too long, didn't I? Ugh." Who is this guy? Does he have an accomplice? But he answers my questions by jumping through the window. The guy has a red and black bodysuit and is armed to the teeth. Katanas, guns and god knows what else. I think I see a pack of grenades. "Wha? Wait, did you do this?" He asks me. I'm not sure wether he'll turn me in or not, so I stay silent. "I bet you did. Wait, is that a funeral dress? Why is there blood on your funeral dress? Oh no, you'r a zombie aren't you?" He shoots me in the stomach. I would have just stood there and taken it, but I get a stroke of genius. Why not pretend to be a zombie, just for kicks? So I crumple to the ground. And lay there. "Oh, so she wasn't a zombie. Wait, that mean's I just killed a little girl. Shit." Then I shoot my hand our, grab his ankle, roll my eyes back in my head and moan like a zombie. "Eeeek! Die, you undead thing, die!" He then runs off. That wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. That and the fact he gave me a bullet in the brain for my trouble. The bastard.

I get changed in the change rooms and continue to loot target; anything useful not nailed down goes straight into the four backpacks I stole. Where should I go next? I'm hungry. Not for brains! Definitely not for brains. I feel like... Ice cream. Yeah. Let's do that. Ice cream, here I come!

AN:

Please review. I won't update unless I get at least one review - take pity on me. Please.


	3. Bob, aka Deadpool

AN: I'm sorry it's taking me so long to update! But...school's hectic and the transition between primary school and high school is leaving me feeling like I was hit by a bus.

The ice cream is good. Very, very, very good. But I am slightly off put by the fact I am wondering wether or not I am a zombie and if in fact I want to eat brains. I'm imagining my ice cream is brains. My imagination is making the delicious choc chip cookie dough and vanilla cake batter ice cream real hard to swallow. And anybody doubting my choice in ice cream; it's delicious. If you don't know that, you don't have a life.

I'm contemplating where to go next. I can't get a house for obvious reasons. At least, not in respectable areas. Maybe I could rent a place in the slums, though that prospect is not very appealing. And even though I have my lovely Target float, I will need money. Where to go, what to do? Since I'm apparently immortal, I could try to enter shield. I have enough training, too. My family is very active in the sports of judo, karate, cliff diving, rock climbing, shooting, boxing, sword fighting and a bunch of other stuff. If you think about it, it's all a bit suspicious. Though I can tell you there is nothing suspicious about my family. Swear to god. Dad's an ex-SHIELD and I have no idea what mom used to do. She can beat dad easily, though, so I can only assume she's an ex-soldier too.

Told you. My family totally isn't suspicious. At all.

But if I join SHIELD, how will things go? Will they let me go back to my family? Throw me in the foster system? Throw me in prison (which is not actually a strange idea, considering that I killed eight or nine Men In Black)? I don't know. And I sure as heck ain't finding out. Maybe I should look for the bodysuit guy. He appeared to be on my side. Before he killed me. But hey, what other options do I have?

A lot, now that I think about it. But who cares? I dump my ice cream cone and decide to find the bodysuit guy. I can't keep calling him the bodysuit guy, I suppose. His name will be Bob. I need to find this Bob.

After three hours of working, I'm friggin' tired. Turns out even though I'm undead, I still can get tired. Which is disappointing. I have no idea where Bob is, and he seems to be very adept at stealth for a guy in a red and black bodysuit. I need to find somewhere to rest and recuperate, before I fall asleep on the footpath and everyone treats me like a homeless person. Oh wait, I guess I am a homeless person. The world leads you to strange places.

It's getting dark, and I still haven't found a place to stay. My feet are hurting from the awesome high heels that were definitely not meant for walking long distances, my Target jumper is way too thin to actually stop any of the freezing cold air from getting to my skin and my stomach is saying ice cream eaten over three hours ago ain't gonna cut it. Most of the food stores are shut by now, but in the vague dusty light I can still make out a Chimichanga food vendor. I walk over. "Hello! How can I help you?" Say's a man with very few teeth. His old crusty face looks like it belongs in Pirates of the Caribbean, and his beard make it hard to distinguish his mouth from the rest of his face. "Umm... One Chimichanga please." I say, putting on the shy voice I use when talking to adults. It's become a habit.

"Sure thing! It's sure is getting dark!" The old man shouts. "Yes, it is."

"Ya know, I met a boy like you the other day! Runaway! He was killed!" Lovely. I suppose this was his not so subtle hint to get home. Whatever. I'm immortal, now. I don't need to worry. "Oh, and can you tell me if you've seen a morally ambiguous man in a black and red jumpsuit?"

"Sure thing! Why the hell are you looking for him, though?"

"Oh, well, he saved my life and I wanted to thank him." Big little white lie. Really, if I told the guy I was shopping in target when I killed a bunch of agents and was shot in the head by Bob (jumpsuit guy), he'd probably call the cops to take me to the nearest insane asylum. "I don't believe that in a million years! But still, he lives with Blind Al! If you willingly go to meet him, don't tell him you got his address from me!" I grab the Chimichanga, nod at him and schlep off to find out wherever the hell this 'Blind Al' lives.

My mom taught me when I was six how to get information. Money is good bait; wave money around, get the actual people who have information churning around. If you want information on the government, more money is needed. Just an address would be a couple a hundred bucks. Slip in paper between the bills to make the pile look thicker. Once you've got your information dealer, show off. Halve the deal, threaten him. Make it look like you're an official, or even better, a professional.

That's what I did to get the address of this rickety shack. I walk up to the door and knock. And knock again. Once I'm bored, which is about three knocks, I kick the door down. That's another bad habit I've picked up. I found out when I was nine I could kick doors down; I have never stopped kicking them down since. More proof of my sanity!

I step inside the dark house. It looks like something an old lady would live in, so no surprise there. But when I come into the living room, there's Bob lying prone on the couch. He's bleeding guts everywhere. I poke him. "Hey, Bob. Wake up." I say. He kinda shifts a bit before waking up - finally - and looks at me. "EEEEEEK! Zombie girl!"

"My name's not Zombie Girl, Bob. My name is Beatrix." I say. "Well my name's not Bob. It's Deadpool."

AN: I know I haven't updated at all lately, but you know reviews keep me alive. So if you could spare like thirty seconds to flame at me for not updating, that would be brilliant. Oh, and by the way, I have a new Beta Reader! To be revealed in the next chapter! Because I need cliffhangers to make this story work!


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